Time Has Come Today
by Charlotte88
Summary: One-shot. "It was impossible to focus on death when there was life growing inside of you."


**Time Has Come Today**

You knew that it had been one of those days when he called you to tell you that he wouldn't make it home in time for dinner.

It was a simple call, just a: "I'm sorry, Nikki. I'll be home as soon as I can. Don't wait up."

But in those three sentences, you could tell. You've always been able to tell.

So here you are, sat on the sofa in the lounge, doing exactly what Harry told you not to do and waiting up for him.

It's the one part of the job that you haven't missed whilst being on leave. Those cases which really get to you; the ones which make you question why you ever became a pathologist in the first place.

Your sigh quickly morphs into a groan as you heave yourself up from the sofa; a task that is considerably more difficult than it used to be.

As you walk into the kitchen, rubbing your aching back, in search of a cheese and pickle sandwich, you wonder what time he'll return.

You remember cases where you'd not get home until the early hours; and cases where you'd decide that it wasn't worth going home at all and you'd just sleep at the lab.

Of course, you'd be much less likely to sleep at the lab now, knowing the alternative wcho was always waiting for you at home.

But still, one thing you don't miss about work - before Leo started your leave early 'for your own good' - was the arriving home and not being able to disconnect with the work that you'd been doing.

Being plagued with nightmares of dead people - well, there'd been many sleepless nights on both your parts.

But it wasn't like that anymore.

You place a hand on your rapidly expanding stomach and smile.

It was impossible to focus on death when there was life growing inside of you. An actual tiny human.

A little part of you still can't believe it.

Eleven months ago, almost to the day, you'd kissed drunkenly in the taxi home after an evening at the pub with Leo and Janet.

Ten months and three weeks ago you'd both stopped pretending that nothing had happened and argued about it. Then kissed again. Sober.

Ten months ago, after five dates and two sleepovers (for you'd wanted to do things properly) you'd finally been unable to wait any longer and slept together.

Nine months ago he'd told you that he loved you.

Eight and a half months ago you moved into his apartment.

Seven months ago you'd been pretty sure that he was going to propose, but your dinner had been interrupted by a frantic Leo calling you to tell you to get to the hospital because Janet had gone into labour.

Six months, three weeks and six days ago little Matthew Dalton came into the world.

Six months ago Harry's whole world came crashing down when his mother passed away.

Five months and two weeks ago there had been a funeral.

Five months ago bittersweet tears were shed when you'd found out that you were six weeks pregnant.

Four months and two weeks ago you'd had the eight-week scan and decided not to know the sex of the baby.

Four months ago he'd surprised you and decorated the spare room. Orange.

Three months and three weeks ago you had decorated the spare room. Cream.

Two months ago you'd been half asleep when he whispered into your ear that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.

Six weeks ago he bought a ring and did it properly.

One month ago you woke up in the early hours of the morning in a panic when you started having stomach pains, only to be informed by a tired-looking ED doctor that it was Braxton Hicks.

Two weeks ago Leo started your maternity leave one month early, despite you only being six months pregnant.

One week ago, but only after visiting Leo six times in as many days to beg for him to give you your job back, did you finally concede that daytime TV would be the only thing that you'd be analysing from now on.

And now here you are, still scrambling through your cupboards for some tomato ketchup to have with your sandwich.

You're six and a half months pregnant and your cravings have gone haywire. Only two nights ago you sent Harry out to the 24-hour Tesco to get you some mint choc-chip ice cream for which you could have sworn then that you'd die without.

Now you can't stand the stuff.

Taking your cheese, pickle and ketchup concoction back to the lounge, you curl up the best you can at the end of the sofa and flick on the DVD player.

It's _Love Actually_, a film that you would normally adore, only this time it's making you cry like a baby for no reason whatsoever.

After just forty-five minutes you switch it off.

You put on the TV instead to discover that an Agatha Christie has just started. Perfect.

You're getting tired now. It's nearly midnight. But you promised yourself you'd wait up for Harry, so that's what you'll do.

However, when another hour passes and there's still no sign of him, you begin to doubt your dedication to seeing him get in safely.

When you're still sat there alone half an hour later you seriously consider going to bed, but then you hear the key turn in the lock.

He sneaks in, trying to be as quiet as possible as he shuts the door and takes off his coat, then enters the lounge and jumps when he sees you.

"I thought I told you not to wait up?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow in that way that you find so adorable.

"I chose to ignore," you shrug, smiling at him. He's still got his briefcase in his hand and an armful of documents, yet his first priority is you. And that makes you smile.

He leans across the arm of the chair and kisses you quickly.

"That's what I love about you. You're so bloody stubborn."

You grin. "I know."

He kisses you again, for longer this time, then straightens up and moves across the room to deposit his papers on his desk.

"Have you been eating pickle and ketchup again?" he calls over his shoulder shrewdly.

"Now that would be telling," you joke, hauling yourself to your feet once again. "I'm going to bed now you're home. You coming?"

He nods and kisses your forehead. "I'll be there in a minute. Although probably before you knowing the speed you walk lately."

"Shut up," you retort, "You try carrying around a sack of spuds in your uterus and see how quickly you walk."

"I'm sorry, did I say walk? I meant waddle," he snorts. You glare at him playfully, used to his good-natured teasing by now.

You've already changed into your pyjamas and been in bed for ten minutes when he finally comes in. You watch him carefully as he unbuttons and removes his shirt then pulls on a t-shirt.

He smirks and shakes his head when he catches you staring as he changes into his pyjama bottoms, but for once that's not what you're intentions are.

He climbs into bed and immediately you roll to face him. "Tough case?" you ask, knowing the answer.

"Yep," he says non-commitally. It's such a clear end of conversation that you don't push it any further, and instead turn away from him.

He switches off the lamp then rolls over so he's directly behind you and pulls your body against his, wrapping an arm around your waist, his hand coming to rest on your bump.

"How have you been today?" he asks quietly, pressing a kiss to the crook of your neck.

"Well, apparently the baby's new favourite toy is my bladder. I have not stopped peeing all day."

"That's lovely," he chuckles, his fingers tracing random patterns on your stomach.

"Also, she was having a mini in-womb rave when I put my Snow Patrol CD on earlier. She has her Mother's taste," you smile.

"I won't hold out much hope then," he quips. "And besides, it's not going to be a girl."

"It is."

"Isn't."

"I bet you a tenner that it's a girl."

"Did you seriously just make a bet on our baby?" he asks incredulously.

You shrug and he laughs, pulling you closer. You relish in the comfort and familiarity of his torso, the strength and warmth of his arms, the feeling of complete and utter security and safety you have when he's with you.

"Don't ever leave me," he mutters suddenly, and you know without looking at him that he isn't joking around anymore.

"Of course I'm not ever going to leave you," you tell him quietly.

"We see people all the time at work ... accidents and ... murders and ... It's just unfair."

You roll over to face him, placing a hand on his cheek and looking him in the eye the best you can in the dark.

"I'm not going anywhere, I promise. I need you just as much as you need me. Trust me."

He reaches up and takes your hand in his, playing with the engagement ring on your finger.

"When are we getting married?" he asks.

You roll over and turn your back to him again, confident that he's okay.

"When I'm not a fat whale and I won't have to waddle down the aisle."

"Yeah, that's probably best," he agrees, causing you to tut and slap his arm.

When his laughter abates, he kisses your neck again, then your jaw and mutters, "I love you."

"I love you too."

Just seconds later you feel those familiar flutterings in your stomach. Taking his hand, you guide it onto the left hand side of your bump and wait. Sure enough, the baby kicks out.

"Baby loves you too," you smile.

"I could never get used to that," he murmurs in awe.

**. . .**

Two months and two weeks later and your waters break in the middle of the supermarket.

Two months, two weeks and one day later, after an agonising thirty-hour labour in which you screamed at everyone involved and hit Harry several times, you gave birth to a healthy, beautiful little girl.

Two months, two weeks and two days later, Harry gave you the ten pounds that he owed you.

Two months and three weeks later and you and Harry take little Izzie home. There are already plans in motion to make her the future Mrs Matthew Dalton.

Six months later and you walk down the aisle on Leo's arm.

Six months and one week later you definitely make the most of Leo and Janet looking after baby Izzie for the weekend while the pair of you spend three gloriously exciting, sunny days and two uninterrupted, blissful nights in Paris for your honeymoon.

Seven months later and you return to work part-time, which you're thrilled about, despite finding it hard leaving Izzie with a childminder.

Eight months later, when standing in the doorway watching Harry read a bedtime story to Izzie who you're pretty sure is completely uninterested, only being six months old, you smile. Because you know now that your life is complete, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

**This story is a special thank you to all who take the time to review what I write. It's also an apology for not updating Sitting, Waiting, Wishing yet. I know it's been a while, but now it's the holidays I should upload another chapter soon. :)**

**Tons of hugs,**

**Charlotte  
xxxx **


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